William

I remember the night our world crumbled. A tempest raged outside, lightning fracturing the sky, thunder echoing our screams. Our home was consumed by an insatiable inferno, leaving nothing behind. Hand in hand, Elena and I fled into the storm, seeking refuge at the forest's edge. There, we collapsed, our bodies trembling, our hearts aching.

Elena, a mere six years old, clung to me, her eyes wide with terror. “Where are Mama and Papa, William?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper against the howling wind.

At ten, I felt the weight of a lifetime on my shoulders. I knew the harsh truth - our parents were gone, claimed by the fire. We were alone, two young souls adrift in a merciless world. But I couldn’t shatter her innocence with this reality.

So, I chose to wave tales instead, tales our parents had once told us. I spoke of the old gods who resided in the forest, their watchful eyes upon us. I narrated the adventures of Cernunnos, the horned god of the wild, Epona, the swift goddess of horses, and Brigid, the fiery goddess of wisdom.

These stories were my gift to her, a distraction, a beacon of hope. I assured her that the old gods were our guardians, that our parents were safe in their company, their love for us undying.

Elena listened, her eyes reflecting the wonder of these tales. She believed every word, her faint smile a balm to my heart. Nestled against me, she whispered, “Thank you, William. You’re the best brother ever.”

Her words stirred a mix of love and guilt within me. I yearned to shield her from sorrow, to gift her a life of joy and peace. I wished to be the brother she deserved.

But I was just a boy, a boy who had lost everything, a boy whose only offering was a web of crafted tales.

In the aftermath of our loss, Elena and I were adrift in a world that seemed to have turned its back on us. Hunger gnawed at our bellies, and the cold was a relentless adversary. Then, the missionaries arrive. They were not just bearers of a new faith, but also our saviors from the biting cold and gnawing hunger.

Elena, with her fiery spirit, accepted their aid but remained a silent rebel. I remember once, a bowl of soup in her hands, looking up at the missionary who had served it. “Your God is kind,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “but he is not mine.”

I, on the other hand, saw in their faith a beacon of hope. It was a path that promised to lead us out of our misery, and I embraced it wholeheartedly.

Six months ago our lives took a turn. A man, glowing with an almost divine aura, arrived in our town. He introduced himself as St. Francis and spoke of his Holy Knights. His words, filled with valor and righteousness, resonated with me, drawing me towards his cause.

Elena, ever the rebel, refused to be left behind. She cut her hair short, borrowed my clothes, and introduced herself as Edward. And just like that, we became knights, our lives now intertwined with faith, rebellion, and an unbreakable bond.

In the heart of the wilderness, I stood against a berserker, my sword poised and my pulse racing. This man was more beast than human, a savage disciple of Cernunnos, the horned god of the wild. His body, a canvas of scars and tattoos, bore no armor. His eyes, aflame with madness, knew no fear.

He had dared to harm Elena, my sister, my world. His foot collided with her with a sickening crunch, his fury relentless. But I had stepped in, my sword meeting his blow, my skill countering his brute strength. My love for her had been a shield against his hatred.

Or so I had believed.

Our battle was a dance of steel and sparks, a whirlwind of parries, dodges, and counters. We traded blows, our bodies resilient, our wills indomitable. But he held a secret advantage, a curse.

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He was a Faithbound, blessed by the wild god, Cernunnos. He fought with the strength of a bear, the speed of a wolf, the ferocity of a lion. He was a warrior favored by the old gods, those who dwelled in shadows, those who defied the One God.

His roar echoed through the clearing as he lunged, axes aimed for my heart. I sidestepped, my blade slicing his arm, drawing blood. He swung at my legs, but I leapt, my sword seeking his neck. He ducked, his collar stained with his own blood. He charged again, his axes shattering my shield. His blood-stained teeth formed a triumphant grin as he raised his axes, ready to strike.

I closed my eyes, bracing for the end. I prayed to God for mercy, to Christ for grace, but I prayed to Francis for aid. I waited for the pain, the darkness, the silence.

But it never came.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Robert, a brother in all but blood, charging the berserker. The goliath turned, grinning as he met Robert’s charge. With a swift, brutal movement, her tore Robert apart, his armor shredding like paper.

Robert’s torso landed near me, his eyes meeting mine. They spoke of God’s love and mercy, of sacrifice and resurrection, of purpose and necessity. They spoke to my heart, my mind, my soul.

My breath hitched in my throat as the world spun into chaos around me. My heart pounded, a wild drum echoing the storm that raged within me. Each beat was a haunting image of my sister, a sharp pang that twisted my insides.

A cold sweat broke out on my skin, a chilling reminder of the shadow that loomed over me, the primal fear of my own mortality. It was a dark specter that threatened to swallow me whole.

Then, amidst the turmoil, a light pierced the fog. Robert’s sacrifice. It wasn’t just a beacon, it was redemption. It was a lighthouse in the storm, its beam cutting through the fear that clouded my mind.

A spark ignited within me, a flame kindled by Robert’s unwavering faith. It was a zeal, a fervor that outshone any fear. It consumed me, filled me, drove me. The faith that Robert demonstrated through his selfless act, it spread to me like wildfire. His faith, his testament to the divine, it wouldn’t be forgotten. Not by me. Not now.

Without any conscious thought, a prayer began to form on my lips, as if drawn from the very depths of my soul. “St. Francis, bear witness to my devotion, my love offered without reservation. Grant me the fortitude to vanquish this adversary, to shield the innocent from his brutality.” As these words spilled from my lips, they carried with them a power that was both real and palpable. It was as if each syllable was imbued with a divine energy that coursed through my veins, invigorating my spirit and stealing my resolve. A holy aura, radiant and pure, began to emulate from me, casting a celestial glow that seemed to push back the shadows of fear and doubt.

I charged the man, golden light crackling from the strain of my muscles, arcing like electricity. My slash intending to bisect him from shoulder to hip. His axes met my sword, the shockwave of the collusion impacting the ground beneath us. His eyes met mine with a savage intelligence, “Your god finally shows himself,” he battered my sword away showing his strength to still be superior to mine, “but I will protect the Grove!” the man shouted with a guttural roar.

He lowered his head, charging at me like a bull. I barely had time to raise my weapon before his shoulder smashed into me, hitting with the force of a boulder cascading down a mountainside. He was on top of me in an instant, his ax raised high for the killing blow. But my mind was clear, my speed enhanced by adrenaline. With practiced ease, I drew my dagger from its sheath at my side and drove it between his ribs. His ax fell, the blunt side smashing into my face. Pain exploded in my head, and then the world faded.

Opening my eyes the fading sun was gone and replaced by a high moon, the pain erupted from my skull, a reminder of my mortal duel. My panic set in, “Edward! Where is Edward?” I shouted, the pain stealing my breath after every word. “Your brother has turned traitor and called on the wild to kill your comrades.” St. Francis answered my questions as he seemingly appeared from nowhere. “We have four witnesses who claim to have been attacked by a wolf that was under his command.” The confusion set in.

“My brother would never,” I wanted to say, but I knew deep in my heart that my brother, or actually my sister, never held faith in the one god. I knew that her soul was not saved and she was still harboring the stories of the old gods I had once told her. “Are you certain there was no mistake, that he wasn’t possessed by the beast?”

“I’m afraid I witnessed the event myself, he started an altercation with Phillip Baker which turned into a wrestling match, while they were on the ground a wolf, blacker than this nights sky, appeared and snuffed the man quite thoroughly.” the look on his face almost spoke of admiration of the events and not disgust. “Yes, the wolf was quite peculiar indeed, I’ve never seen one resembling anything like it, closer to a demon than beast I’m sure.” his tone seemed amused at the mention of the word demon. “After it ripped out, what would say was a massive man’s throat, it licked your brother and barked like a puppy. It was quite astounding really.” His eyes seemed to show excitement.

“Of course, it’s not too late to save your brother.” There were the words I wanted to hear. “I’m forming a group of talented knights, my personal soldiers who offer their prayers to me, in our lord’s name of course, just as you did during your fight.” He extended his hand out to me, a look of pure delight across his face.

A prayer to him? What does he mean? “I remember praying for strength, but it just came out, I don’t actually remember what I said.” the memory threatening to overcome me. Francis looked around scanning for any potential witness, making eye contact with his bodyguard and nodding his head. At that moment the bodyguard stepped away from us facing the other soldiers, as if he were casting a wall between us for privacy.

“You see William, I have been blessed by the Holy Spirit itself. It has given me the ability to create contracts and bestow blessings upon the faithful. You have instinctually initiated such a contract.”

The word ‘contract’ hung in the air between us, a term that seemed too cold, too transactional for something so deeply personal. It felt wrong, like a discordant note in a harmonious melody. But then, I thought of my sister, her face etched with dear, her fate uncertain. The prospect of power, the promise of being able to protect her, twisted the discordant note into a symphony of hope. The contract, it wasn’t just a deal, it was a gift. A gift wrapped in faith and sealed with a prayer. A gift that could save my sister. And despite the unease that gnawed at the edges of my conscience, I found myself reaching out, ready to accept it.